


Things Behind The Sun

by littledaybreaker



Category: Sharp Objects (TV), Sharp Objects - Gillian Flynn
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24018130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledaybreaker/pseuds/littledaybreaker
Summary: "Look, there are three ways kids raised by our mother could turn out. Like me. Like our sister Marian who was murdered. Or like Amma. But she's not evil. She's not beyond help. And I'm not going to give up on her, so I'm begging you not to, either."Or, what happened after Camille found the teeth in Amma's dollhouse.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Things Behind The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I've categorised this in both the TV series and the book sections for Sharp Objects because it contains basic elements from both.
> 
> Second: I've been troubled by the interpretation of Amma's behaviour and actions as those of a true villain for some time, and the ending of the series was ambiguous enough that it left space for redemption or at least an explanation. Her motive, to me, was always clear, and there's inklings throughout both book and series that she's not as mean or cold blooded as she appears to be on a surface level. Which is not to say that she's a perfectly innocent character, just a complex one whose motives are deeply rooted in psychological trauma and not necessarily a desire or a drive to kill for pleasure, for example. I wanted to write a work that explores her as the complex character that she is, to attempt to rectify some of that ambiguity and to explore her as a character outside of Camille's interpretations of her.
> 
> Third: Amma's blanket is a completely unsponsored shoutout to the beautiful work of DolceDreams on Etsy.

_ "Take your time and you'll be fine _

_ And say a prayer for people there _

_ Who live on the floor _

_ And if you see what's meant to be _

_ Don't name the day or try to say _

_ It happened before." _

Nick Drake

  
  


Ultimately, Camille knows she owes Amma nothing. 

They are still virtual strangers, and now the mysteries of Amma seem even more complex to Camille than they did before, the discovery of this single tiny object seeming to be the thread that unravels the whole quilt. There are more questions than Camille has words for and even if she were to ask she’s not sure she’d like to hear the answers. 

_ There’s something seriously wrong with her,  _ she thinks. She turns, looks at Amma. Supporting herself on the door frame, shaking, her face pale. There’s a sudden prickle of painful heat on Camille’s arms, legs, every space a word is carved seemingly alight. Amma is biting her lip, breathing hard, and Camille’s next thought is softer.  _ She’s sick,  _ she thinks.  _ She’s sick and she needs you to take care of her.  _ When Camille gets to her feet, she calmly holds her arms out to Amma, who crumples into them. She leads her to the bed, lays her down on it. Cups Amma’s face in her hand, makes her look at her. “I won’t tell,” she promises. “I won’t tell. But we have to get rid of it, okay? We have to get rid of it and you have to let me help you.” She can see Amma’s eyelashes sparkling with unshed tears, and she steadies the trembling jaw with her hand. “Amity,” she says, and Amma regards her with a serious, if frightened, expression. “You have to let me help you. Do you understand me?” 

Amma nods, her voice barely above a whisper when she speaks, “I want you to help me. I don’t want to be that person anymore.” 

It’s then that Camille recalls something that happened back in Wind Gap, a fleeting conversation they had the night after Amma was so nice to her the first time. “I don’t know why I’m like that,” Amma had said. “I don’t want to be.” It had made Camille shiver at the time, but now she understands it somehow, the duality that exists inside of her sister. She hugs her, briefly, and then stands. “I’m going to destroy it,” she says carefully, and Amma nods. 

“All of it?” she asks softly, and Camille pauses, then decides: “yes. All of it.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she picks up the dollhouse, sets it in the foyer just long enough to find the hammer, carrying it out into the courtyard--quiet, thankfully, with most people at work. She steels herself, takes a deep breath, and then sets to work undoing all of Amma’s. 

She allows herself a moment’s pity for the false accusations against their mother, but it is only a moment. Even if she wasn’t the one who killed Ann or Natalie, their blood was, however indirectly, on her hands even more than on Amma’s. And she’d killed Marian. Damaged her other two daughters beyond repair. No. Damaged one daughter beyond repair and left her to try to put together the broken pieces of the other. There. Better.  _ She deserves whatever she gets,  _ she thinks. Tonight once Amma is asleep she’ll take the broken remnants of the dollhouse into a field somewhere. Burn them and then bury the evidence. No one has to know. Their little secret.

She can hear Amma sobbing when she re-enters the apartment, although there’s an attempt to muffle it when the door opens. It makes Camille want to cry, want to somehow magic the dollhouse back the way it was. But she knows this is the only way to fix things, and she knows it’s the right thing to do, so instead she leaves Amma to her grief, slipping into her own room and locking the door.

Her first call is work, letting them know she needs a day, maybe more. Amma’s having trouble adjusting, she explains, and it’s not exactly a lie. “Take all the time you need,” Curry says, “and give Amma my love.” She promises she will, hangs up, takes a deep breath, and makes the second call: to her psychologist from inpatient, asking if she knows anyone who specializes in teens and may be able to hear out an unusual situation. She takes down the number with shaking hands, thanks her, and hangs up. 

There’s a moment’s internal debate before the third call. Is it right to be protecting her like this? Is it fair to those girls? To their parents? Yes, she decides, it is. Because sometimes good people do evil things, and sometimes evil people do good things. The evil people don’t deserve praise for the good things any more than the good deserve condemnation for the bad things. The deeds are the thing that needs to be punished, not the person. She dials the number. 

Even over the phone, the child psychiatrist--Dr Milhauer--has a calming, almost hypnotic voice and presence. It washes over her, calming her, giving her what she needs to somehow explain herself: “it’s my sister,” she says, “and I really need you to see her before making any judgements so I’m not going to tell you much over the phone if that’s okay. She’s--we’ve--our mother is very abusive, and it’s caused her to act out. But it’s urgent.”

“I understand,” Dr Milhauer promises. “I won’t make any judgements until I meet her. Can I patch you back through to the receptionist? I’ll tell her to schedule an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.”

All the dammed up tears come flowing out with the appointment made, no doubt scaring the receptionist, and all Camille can say by way of explanation is that it’s been a really hard time and she’s just grateful--because she is. After they’ve hung up and she’s taken down the appointment time, she allows herself a few moments to collect herself before she returns to Amma’s room, knocking lightly on the door. When there’s no response, she opens it, half-expecting to see her gone, the window open. 

Instead, she’s asleep, curled on her side, breathing soft and snuffly like a baby. One hand is clutching an opulent security blanket, fluffy white muslin embroidered with her name, soft floral velvet trim pressed against her cheek like she’d fallen asleep rubbing it there for comfort, and the other is holding the hand of her American Girl doll.  _ She’s just a little girl,  _ Camille thinks.  _ Just a scared little girl that never had anyone to really love her.  _

Quietly, she creeps across the floor and tucks herself into the window seat, watching Amma breathe.  _ It’s going to be okay,  _ she tells her wordlessly.  _ I’m going to take care of you now.  _

“Camille?”

She awakes with a start, disoriented, a cramp in her neck. There’s a moment’s confusion--where is she?--as her eyes adjust to the dark and she remembers. The teeth, the dollhouse. Amma.  _ Amma.  _ “Amma?” 

“Whatcha doing?” her voice is sleepy, but amused. Like herself. Herself from Wind Gap. 

“I--oh, I came to check on you and I must’ve fallen asleep.” Chuckling. “Not that you need me to watch you.” 

“Here.” Amma is sitting on the edge of her bed, having gotten up at some point--her hair is in damp ringlets, and she’s wearing her nightgown instead of her day clothes. She pats the edge of her bed. “Sit with me.”

Camille’s phone clock reads 3:05. She rises, taking a seat next to Amma, who is suddenly quiet again, picking up her doll, holding her in her lap, braiding and unbraiding her hair. “Did you mean it?” she asks eventually. “That you’ll help me?”

Needing a fidget of her own, Camille picks up the blanket, folds and unfolds it, reflecting that Marian had one similar--probably made by the same person. Adora wouldn’t have dreamt of giving Camille something that lovely, of course. She swallows hard, trying to unstick the lump in her throat, and hands the blanket over to Amma, who immediately abandons the doll, rubbing the velvet on her cheek. “I do mean it,” Camille says. “I made an appointment for you with a doctor. Tomorrow. But you have to do everything the doctor says, okay? You have to listen to her, because it’s the only way to get better.”

“Is that how you got better?” Amma asks. It’s an innocent question this time, Camille is sure. Whatever malice Amma had in her body seems drained now, as though all the crying and the destruction of the dollhouse washed it away. Perhaps it did. 

“It is,” Camille said. “And I might go see my doctor again too, once you’re feeling okay, because there’s things I still need to work on. But we’re going to work on them together, okay? I’m not going to let you down. I’m not going to leave you. You’re the most important thing in my life now.”

Suddenly, Amma stops, going very still. Her breathing grows uneven again, and she flings herself into Camille’s lap. She cries steadily for a few moments, Camille playing with her hair and soothing her with small “shshshsh” noises, and then asks, voice small, breath hitching still, “Do you mean it?” 

“Mean what?” Camille asks, threading her fingers through Amma’s hair still, slow and gentle, featherlight movements. “That you’re the most important thing in my life? Yes. I promise you.” 

As if these are magic words, Amma suddenly relaxes, her breathing evening out, her body liquid. “Okay,” she says quietly. “I believe you.” 

“I love you,” Camille promises, but Amma is already asleep. 

  
  


In the afternoon, they drive in silence for 30 minutes to Dr Milhauer’s office. 

“I know you’re scared,” Camille says once they’re parked, finally turning to look at Amma. “But it’s going to be the best thing, okay? She’s going to help you.”

Amma is staring straight ahead, fidgeting with the edge of her baby blanket--Camille had let her bring it in her backpack, a compromise. “What if she wants to send me away?”

Camille hesitates. “Sometimes it’s the best thing for us,” she finally says, voice even. “I went to inpatient and it was the best thing for me. If that’s what has to happen, that’s what has to happen, but it’ll only be for a little while, and I’ll be there every step of the way. I’ll call all the time and write letters and visit whenever I can.”

“You won’t forget me there?” 

“Amity.” Amma turns and looks at her, head tilted. “I won’t ever forget you. I won’t ever do anything I don’t think is the best thing for  _ you,  _ no matter how hard it is for me, because you’re my most important thing, remember?” 

“...yeah. I remember.”

“I know it’s a hard thing to believe, but I want you to trust me, okay? It’s the only way this thing is going to work.” 

Amma nods, zipping her backpack, unfastening her seatbelt. “Okay,” she agrees. “I’m ready.”

Dr Milhauer turns out to be a tiny, fey woman, barely five feet tall, with soft dark hair and a warm smile. She greets both Camille and Amma with warm smiles and handshakes. “Amma,” she says, “what a beautiful name.”

“It’s short for Amity,” Amma mumbles, shy. 

“That means friendliness and peace,” Dr Milhauer observes. “I hope we can find some of that here, don’t you?”

Amma considers, then nods, smiling a little for the first time. “I hope so,” she agrees, allowing herself to be led down the hall by Dr Milhauer. 

It’s a long, agonising hour’s wait before Dr Milhauer appears in the waiting area again, smiling at Camille, although with a notable air of grimness. She gestures for Camille to follow, and she does, allowing herself to be led into a private conference room. The door locks with a soft click behind her. 

“Is she telling the truth?” Dr Milhauer asks, and Camille needs no other clarification.

“It’s not what you think,” Camille explains, almost defensive. “It’s not--she’s not a criminal.” 

“I didn’t say she was,” the psychiatrist says, not unkindly. “I only asked if it was true.”

Camille stares at her hands, the word “sick” burning just above the cuff of her sleeve. She swallows. “Yes.” 

“Did she tell you why?” Dr Milhauer asks. There’s a surprising gentleness to her voice. Camille shakes her head. 

“Ask her,” Dr Milhauer says. “I think it may surprise you.”

“I know it’s a lot,” Camille says, the words tumbling out of her now, powerless to stop them even if she wanted to. “I know on the surface it probably seems like she belongs in jail, but...she doesn’t. I know she doesn’t. She’s not evil, she’s not a criminal, she’s…” pause for breath. Continue. “Look, there were three possible ways for kids who were raised by our mother to turn out. First…” without hesitation she rolls up her sleeves, lets Dr Milhauer get a good look. “Like me. Second, dead--murdered in cold blood, really--like our sister Marian. And third…like Amma. But she’s not beyond help. I know she’s not. And I’m not going to give up on her, so I’m begging you not to.”

Dr Milhauer blinks, her expression unreadable. She reaches over and takes Camille’s hand. “I’m not going to give up on her, Camille,” she says, squeezing her hand lightly. “There was nothing in my conversation today that suggested that she was beyond help or that she’d be a bad candidate for treatment. She gave every indication she wants help. It was smart of you to get her in when you did. It’s not going to be an easy or a short process, but I think you know that. And I think you know that it’s worth it.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Camille rolls down her sleeves, nodding. “I already told her that I would be by her side no matter what.” 

Dr Milhauer is by the door now, unlocking it, and she turns with a surprised expression. “I think that’s exactly what she needed to hear,” she says, “and I think you’re both going to do just fine.”

In Dr Milhauer’s office, Amma is situated in a poufy green chair, criss-cross apple sauce, her open backpack at her feet and her blanket across her lap. Her eyes are puffy from crying, but she looks up at Camille and offers her a small smile. 

“Amma, would you like to read Camille what we wrote together?” Dr Milhauer asks gently, and Amma nods, unfolding the paper, beginning to read.

“ _ I always just wanted mama to love me. But it only seemed like she loved me when I was little, or if I was doing something that reminded her of Marian. At first it was easy to do. It was even easy to live my double life and be happy doing it.  _

_ I liked Ann and Natalie and Mae. I did. They were my friends, which I know is weird--”  _ she looked up. “Sorry, Dr Milhauer, I know you said--” but Dr Milhauer put a finger to her lips, encouraging her to keep reading, and she did. “ _ \--but they were.  _

_ But something happened when I brought them to the house and it opened up something in me, like a door, and let something bad in.  _

_ Mama loved them. She loved them more than me, I think. She doted on them. And whatever that bad thing from bringing them into the house was...well, it didn’t like that. And it came alive whenever I had bad feelings.  _

_ Ann was the one who started the game of hurting the animals, not me. At first I hated it. But when the bad thing came I couldn’t stop, I was fascinated. That’s how I learned how to do it. The killing, I mean. I watched her.  _

_ But here’s the weird thing: I don’t really even remember doing it. I didn’t like it. I wasn’t happy. It didn’t feel good or exciting. It didn’t feel like anything. It felt like I fell asleep and then I woke up.  _

_ I wanted mama to love me. Not even as much as she loved Marian. Just a little bit. I wanted her to care about me and dote on me. But she looked at Ann and Natalie like...like she was hungry for them. And the bad thing couldn’t stand it.”  _ She pauses then, looking up, and Camille gives her an encouraging nod, hoping her face is blank and not betraying the flood of emotions.

“ _ When we came here I thought, oh, it must all be over. Because mama is going away and I’m going to live here with you and it’s going to be okay. Like that door in me opened up and let the bad thing out.  _

_ I was scared it would come back if I brought anyone to the house. I was scared that if you even smiled at them or did something in a certain way the bad thing would wake up. But then I was like, well, why does it even matter? She’s not mama. So I brought Mae home. _

_ Maybe you didn’t even know or notice, but you were so nice to her, and I think you were probably just being nice like a normal person, but...it woke up. The bad thing woke up. And before I even knew what was happening, it happened again.”  _ She’d begun to cry, tears streaming down her face as she reads the last page, and while all Camille wants to do is hug her, she knows better, knows to give her her space. “ _ I wish I could take it away. I wish I could go back and not do it. I don’t want to be the kind of person who hurts people. I just wanted to be loved.  _

_ When you said I was the most important thing in your life I felt so horrible but I also felt like for the first time I was actually free. I felt so horrible because it meant that I killed Mae for nothing, for less than nothing. The bad thing didn’t even have an excuse. But I felt like I was free because no one had ever told me that, and no one had ever made me feel that.”  _ Looking up at Camille and the doctor: “I’m done now.”

“It was very brave of you to share that, Amma,” Dr Milhauer says, encouragingly, and Camille just crosses the room, wrapping Amma up in her arms, rocking her back and forth. They cry together for a few moments before Dr Milhauer gently clears her throat. 

“Amma,” she says, “I think the best thing for you now would be to go to a residential program for a while. There are doctors who specialize in trauma and kids who have gone through things like you have, and even some kids who had similar responses to their trauma. They can help you get the skills you need, and they can help you heal from your traumas as well. I know it won’t be easy to leave Camille, but you believe her when she tells you that you’re the most important person, don’t you?” Amma nods, and the doctor continues. “You’re welcome to talk to your sister about it. Take all the time you need. But if you were open to it, you could leave today.”

Amma and Camille exchange a glance, and there’s no hesitation before Amma speaks again. “I want to do it,” she says, voice firm and confident. It’s a tone Camille has never heard from her before. “We already talked about it, kind of, at home. And I already made up my mind.” She looks over at Camille, who nods encouragingly. “We did talk about it. I’m proud of you for deciding, because I know it’s not easy.” 

Amma leans into her, and Camille wraps her arm around her tight. Dr Milhauer, smiling warmly, claps her hands together. “Great. If you don’t mind going out into the waiting room, I’ll make the call and they’ll have your bed for you this evening.” 

In the waiting room, there’s a mountain of paperwork to sign, and it’s a welcome distraction while Dr Milhauer makes the final preparations. “How are you so calm?” Camille asks, semi-joking, showing Amma her shaking hands as Amma signs her name under Camille’s. 

“Because I know it’s the right thing to do,” Amma says serenely, handing her back the pen. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt sure of something like that before. I don’t know if I ever knew what the right thing to do was before.”

“I think you always knew.” Camille signs the last page with a flourish. “But you didn’t know you knew.”

“All set?” Dr Milhauer asks, and they both nod, handing the stack of paperwork back. She scans it, putting it in a manila envelope with Amma’s information on the front, and then hands it back. “Everything looks good. They’re waiting for you at the center, and everyone is very excited to meet you. Go home and get your things. By the time I see you again, you’ll be a whole new Amma.”

Suddenly shy again, Amma looks down at her feet, smiling. “I hope you’re right,” she agrees. 

“Thank you, Dr Milhauer,” Camille says. “You don’t know what this means to me.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” Dr Milhauer replies, “You put this in motion. I just pulled the strings. Now you better get going; you don’t want to be driving in the dark.”

After a brief stop at home to pick up some essentials (and to learn that they seemed to have wildly differing views of what an ‘essential’ was), they are on their way. The Julia Brice Treatment Center, an hour and a half outside of St Louis, its idyllic wooded grounds seeming more to Camille like a summer camp than a mental hospital, even with the guards at the gate taking Amma’s paperwork and speaking into walkie talkies before buzzing them in. 

During the tour Amma sticks close to Camille, glued to her the way a small child might be on the first day of kindergarten, but by the time Camille finishes filling out the mountain of intake paperwork, she’s begun to settle in to her room and has met her roommate. When Camille pops her head in to say goodbye, she and the roommate are giggling like they were old friends. Nonetheless, Amma hops up to hug Camille goodbye, squeezing her tight, and neither of them are particularly eager to let go. “It’s going to be great,” Camille promises her, and Amma nods. “And I promise you that when all this is over we’re going to be so much better off, and we’re going to start our new life and leave everything far behind us.”

“Promise?” Amma asks, eyes shining. 

Camille nods. “Promise.”

Seeming satisfied, Amma pulls away, returning to her bed. Her roommate leans over to say something only Amma can hear, and Amma smiles. She looks up and waves and then the two girls resume whispering. Camille takes this as her cue to leave, creeping away almost guiltily. 

Her case manager meets Camille in the visitor’s room, shakes her hand, thanks her for bringing her on such short notice. “I know it’s a lot, it’s a big decision, and her case is...complicated. But this is the best place for her. We’re going to take good care of her. If you ever need anything at all we’re just a phone call away, and if she needs anything, we’ll be sure to call you as well.”

Camille nods, the lump in her throat preventing her from speaking, and shakes the case manager’s hand. “Thank you,” she manages. “Please do take good care of her.”

The case manager pulls her into a hug, smiles reassuringly at her. “The next visiting day is only ten days from now. It’ll go faster than you know.”

“I’m sure it will,” Camille agrees, turning to leave.

On her way out, she can’t resist, taking the long way so she can pass by Amma’s room again. The light is on and the door is open, as per the facility policy, so she has a clear view of the two girls, their heads bent together. Amma murmurs something unintelligible and her roommate laughs, a full belly laugh, as Camille bustles past them unnoticed, out through the door and into the damp evening chill.

As she pulls away, leaving the Julia Brice Treatment Center in her rearview, all Camille can think is that she hopes there won’t be any more surprises in their lives. 


End file.
